


Want

by demondoll



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Coming Untouched, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), M/M, Non-Explicit, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27630503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demondoll/pseuds/demondoll
Summary: For the want of an angel a demon endures
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	Want

**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone else write something then forget all about it only to find and enjoy reading it months later...well that’s how this short one off came to be posted.

It moves, the air between them, the dust motes dance in the soft light emitting from the turn of the century lamp situated on an equally aged table beside them. The single point of light in the otherwise dark small back room causes shadows to encroach from hidden corners creating a safe haven of illumination where they alone exist.

It is late, so so late that it could almost be considered early, although the city beyond the window is as ever alive with sound nothing reaches the ears of the two beings isolated within their bubble of light. The silence stretches between them comfortable, accepted, beautiful. When an eternity has been spent together words are no longer required only desired. One loves to talk, to converse to offer options and impart information and the other, well the other is simply compelled to listen.

Drawn like a moth to the flame, full of the knowledge of how that flame will burn, of how it will flare through him, brilliant and hot and alive before leaving him a burnt out husk of himself and desperate with further want, yet he is powerless to be anywhere else. It has been so long, so long now that this compulsion to be where the other is has become a part of him as integral to his being as the skin and bone that hold his mortal corporation together.

He has gone years in the past, decades, centuries bereft of the angelic being alongside him, his opposite, his white, his yin, his heaven and his soul that he can no longer be parted from him. He orbits him, his very hearts desire, the heart he is supposed not to have, the heart and part of him that was ripped away for nothing more than curiosity. They took everything good, everything he wanted and yearned for, everything he needed and cherished and moulded it into the angel...his perfect opposite.

Nothing is perfect.

The angel is perfect.

Nothing is perfect.

His angel is perfect for him.

He is not meant to have perfection, he is allowed only punishment and pain and Hell. 

He is in Hell - his own personal tailor made version of it - being able to spend an eternity in the orbit of his angel the one thing he can never have, never touch, never hold.

His drug of choice.

His addiction.

The only thing he wants has ever wanted...and oh, _oh how he_ _wants_.

He wants to breathe...to breathe in the scent of his very essence, his skin, his hair, his breath. 

He wants to touch...to touch, to trace his way across the plains of his face, mapping the cheekbones with his nose to stroke his lips over his jaw to his ear, to run his tongue round the shell.

He wants to feel...to feel the heat of his neck where it meets his collarbone, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, the ghost of his exhalations as he sighs.

He wants to taste…to taste and to sip at his lips, to lap at the sweat coating his skin, to savour the bittersweet essence of his arousal.

He wants to evoke...a reaction, a moan, a gasp, a response…something, anything to let him know that he is not the only one with this frantic yearning, this craving this all consuming thirst for what he can't, shouldn’t but desperately wants.

He wants to possess...to consume and possess and to take and to indulge - to hold and to grasp and to devour.

He needs...needs something more, something more than this more than just sitting near him, more than just proximity. More than just close enough to almost, almost feel the heat of his body so close yet as ever so terribly far apart.

He needs it all.

His hand twitches as it lays open, palm up along the back of the sofa, long fingers stretching out, a hair's breadth from the skin of the others neck.

So close, so close.

He could reach it with a sigh, in a whisper. With just a whisper he could touch, have everything, everything his broken mind craves, he could touch, could caress, could feel, could burn. 

With just a whisper he could possess his literal heart's desire.

His body throbs with need, a need that has never been fed, his hips strain against a compulsion to thrust to relieve a pressure he cannot and does not want to control.

He can almost know - he dreams, has dreamt of a touch to his body, a touch that he he has never felt, awoken by his own strangled cry, his face away with the burning tears of disappointment tears - the knowing that in sleep he found completion. 

He wants for none but his angel, he has never wanted any but his hands, his body, his lips, his touch.

He has never felt another’s touch. 

He is starving for the want of it.

He writhes against the cushions like the snake he is, his body hard and primed for something, anything, everything. 

The rub of his jeans against his hardness, the soft brush of silk against the tight over sensitive nubs of his nipples, the sheer need that thrums through his body. 

A heat he cannot, will not command rushing through him, burning in his throat, in his chest, down his spine, pooling hot like molten lava in his groin.

He moans, the long low animalistic sound ripping from the very depths of his blackened soul and Aziraphale opens his eyes and turns his head towards him.

Crowley is helpless to look away as Aziraphale eyes him, slowly running his gaze from his hell bright hair pulled to disarray by the desperate clenching of fingers, the sulphur hue of his eyes - pupils blow with lust - the fever flush of his skin. 

Running his angelic gaze down the length of Crowley’s body sprawled as it is all jutting hips and insolent legs, his lips parting on a silent gasp and eyes widening at very obvious sign of his arousal. 

He takes in the sheen of sweat, the rapid pulse, beating out his downfall in his neck. He sees the hunger he can't hide, the need and the want…

Azirpahale smiles at him - a soft, heated, indulgent thing before dragging his gaze very deliberately back down to his obscene jutting cock and slowly as though faced with the greatest of culinary delights, licks his lips.

Crowley give a high pitched needy whine - a single cry - a helpless arch of his back - a wanton desperate thrust of his hips and...touched by nothing more than the loving eyes of his angel a demon is destroyed.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not sure when in the time like this occurs, some time after the opening of the bookshop and before the apocaldidnt. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read...let me know if you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it x


End file.
